


In the Flesh

by ohgoshgoodnessme



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Incest, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 20:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgoshgoodnessme/pseuds/ohgoshgoodnessme
Summary: A story of two sisters
Relationships: Arabella Whitlock/Cynthia Whitlock
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	In the Flesh

Cynthia had been the cornerstone of Arabella's life until she was doubly taken from her: first by nuptial vows, and then by death. But before that, for almost two dozen years, they had lived in a paradise of love and desire.

Despite the whole wing of rooms that the sisters Livingstone could have occupied in their familiar home, they had shared a room from birth until separation by marriage. Though they had matching mattresses--sturdy and hard to build character--they often fell asleep in each other arms and breathed in unison. As children, the twins shared their wishes, dreams, and wonders about the world and the future. Their vision was shaped by their own unique personalities: ever-responsible Cynthia dreamed of running a fine house, of being her own woman, perhaps overlooking their family's company books and tending to the accounting while awaiting the return of her sister. Arabella, who had graduated from fairy tales to spiritualism and the occult, dreamed of adventuring around the world and shedding the heavy cloak of Christianity that lay upon her shoulders. As different as their childhood dreams were, Arabella always promised to return with wondrous tales to whisper to her sister in their bed each night, and Cynthia always promised to leave her heart open for her. With as much money as their parents had, the sister thought they were above the petty and shallow concerns of the young ladies they were sometimes forced to endure proximity to.

From a young age their personalities were quite clear. Arabella was a prankster who liked to trick family and guests and cause social embarrassment. She was often in trouble and often sent to her room, whereas Cynthia was comfortable in social settings. She was the more pleasant and well-behaved twin who compensated for what outsiders perceived as her sister's inadequacies. But when they were alone in bed, Cynthia always provided the most sarcastic and scathing impressions of their parents or whatever Mr. Whosit Moneybags or Miss Soandso Socialite. As the sisters grew older, Cynthia's impressions included the romantic overtures that finely bred gentleman had for slightly older young ladies and women. Or the girls gossiped about who was flirting or stealing kisses from who.

Was it any surprise that the sisters started to share chaste kisses at first? They were merely repeating what they saw behind the respectable facade off their class. But, instead of turning their love and obsession outward to thoughts of marriage, the sisters Livingston clung to one another with that much more ferocity. Soon the mimicked kisses they shared in the middle of the night turned into a true, sometimes rough, sometimes tender kind of love. It was their kisses that drowned out any cries, though their wing of the house hardly had any encroachers in the night. Arabella could not contain her love when her sister clutched at her hair with each suck on her clit. Luckily, Cynthia had a careful hand that could easily mend the rips and tears that Arabella sometimes caused from her intensity the night before. 

A brief stint in boarding school could not stop the passion that Arabella and Cynthia had discovered. Arabella had angered their parents with a prank that went too far--father's hair never quite recovered--but they wrote letters with heavy obfuscation of childhood symbology and words. They spoke of the Ladies of Llangollen that Cynthia had read about in some old book, of Anne and Emily Bronte, of fairy tale and mythical sisters who could never be parted. But towards the end of Arabella's year away, their mother and father started to intrude more and more into their private world. The market had crashed, and the company was not doing as good as it had. Arabella and Cynthia hadn't noticed the intrusion until it was too late.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arabella was in a twilight sleep, her cheek pressed against the cold glass window pane on the train. She was fully aware of where she was, of the hard seat she sat on, of some child's sniffling, of the sound of the train, of the smell of a cigar. However, her body had become weightless, and in her mind's eye she saw darkness. A lucid dream, she had read, was one of the best times to try to reach the dead but no matter how hard she tried she could not call out to Cynthia. Her mouth felt clumsy and numb and her jaw refused to open. Tears started to sting her closed eyes and she ran in her dream, clawing at her mouth to try to pry it open. The dreamscape grew unbearably dark and the hair rose on her arms. The darkness held no relief and each footfall was unbearably loud. Her dream provided no shelter, no land, no creatures nor sky. Then, as tears fell down her cheek, her eyes opened and fixed on the flat landscape that was quickly going by. How did her sister manage this trip? Had Cynthia been crying to be away from her, or to meet some man she had never met? Was she excited? Had she found a way from Arabella and her intensity? 

But even if that was true, surely the drunkard recluse she married had been no better alternative than Arabella. The letters that Cynthia sent did not seem happy, and Arabella would know since she reread them nearly every day. Forty letters over half a year. Forty letters written from that damned town in the middle of nowhere. Arabella knew her sister well enough to see through the happy facade she had put on for mother and father. The penultimate letter, the last to be written by her sister, was written in a weak hand that Arabella had stained with her tears. The true last letter was a short and terse square of text from Mr. Whitlock. Then her father took over correspondence in conjunction with his lawyer. Her mother left her alone as she usually did and busied herself with over the top performances of grief. Arabella hated them, and so when her father suggested a few weeks later that she marry Mr. Whitlock, that really it was a way of being closer to her sister, Arabella said yes almost immediately. 

Arabella had a month before her train ride to prepare her journals, to get books she put off purchasing, to contact people to learn about dark rumors. The last was of most interest to her as she heard stories of people coming back to life, stories from the war and from across the world. There was a power in stories that she could trust, unlike the cold medical science that said the person she loved most in this world died of some quotidian plague. When she could manage, she wrote in her journal about what seemed the best paths to follow to bring her sister back. But going from train to stagecoach made continuing impossible.

The town that had killed her sister was worse than Arabella feared, though she was not afraid for herself but for Cynthia. As two women brawled in the street, she wondered how poor Cynthia managed this. Arabella knew this was nothing to her own sensibilities, that she could handle whatever this town had to throw at her. She even had ideas on how to deal with her... husband. But the thought of her Cynthia, a fragile-hearted soul who never could have lived here, soon made her angry. Her cheeks reddened and her body stiffened as she was guided to the hotel where she would stay until the church wedding in a few days. She wanted to curse the gods, her parents, Mr. Whitlock, and every dingy soul in this place.

The feeling did not subside during the wedding nor after. The move to the Whitlock house was not long since the town had two streets and that was being generous. The house was made of cheap pine, and though the man was rich he did not live it. The pine was unfinished, with four windows on the front side. It was a house a child would draw, and yet Arabella felt something sinister about it. This was the pine house that killed her sister and let her be buried in a cheap pine coffin. Cynthia should have been buried in rosewood treated with tung oil. She should be laying lavender, roses, mallow, plum blossoms, heliotrope, mint and tarragon and other flowers suitable for her virtues. But instead she was over some hill in some dusty little cemetery among criminals and their victims.

Mr. Whitlock, which she would discover later, had made a rare display of sobriety for the wedding and the escort to his home. He smelled of cheap pine and strong cologne and his hands trembled nervously as he filled the silence with his blabbering. Arabella did not care, she entered the house and tried to look for evidence of her sister in the front room. However, unlike their childhood home with a piece of Cynthia everywhere, this place was nearly devoid of her.

Her husband said that the two upper rooms were hers to do as she pleased. Cynthia had only used one so the other was empty. His room was downstairs, though he blanched instead of making any crude suggestion. The people who passed for society in this town soon filtered out, finding the reception to be chillier than winter in February. No one wanted to speak to her and any gentle prying about Cynthia to Mr. Whitlock made him clam up. He quickly drank more and more brandy and then whisky. An hour after the last guest left, he was incapacitated.

Arabella immediately went to Cynthia's room. Her own trunks had been taken there. Despite the weeks since her sister's passing, the room was as nice and tidy as if Cynthia had just cleaned it this morning. Had she really died in this bed? In this room? There was no stench of foul clawed death, and even the bed was made. Arabella closed the door and sat on the edge of that bed, her face feeling warm. Her eyes began to sting as grief welled inside her. she had not cried once before this, not when Cynthia was married off, not when she left, nor when she died. But now that tripled grief threatened to ruin her. She curled on top of the bed, clutching the quilt her sister had made, and cried into it. She did not know the depth of her own well of sadness and wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep. When Arabella woke up, she was sore, and the bedding beneath her face was slightly damp still. She sat up and breathed slow and steady. 

The trunk at the foot of the bed was a comforting sight. Arabella knelt and opened it, smelling the tender scent of dried flowers and sandalwood. Cynthia had neatly sorted her clothing, her bedclothes, her extra linens, all made or embellished by her hand. Breath caught in Arabella's throat as she lifted a night gown, her hand slipping in it. It was so sheer and still smelled of Cynthia as she pressed it to her face. As she pulled the fabric back, she saw the wet spots her tears left, and carefully folded it back into place.

She closed the trunk and then stood, turning to the simple writing desk by the window. The view looked out to the town, though at a distance. The desk was just as neat and tidy as the trunk, everything in its proper place except for the woman who had owned all these things. In one drawer, Arabella found letters from their parents, other family, and friends to Cynthia. Another drawer was full of the letters that Arabella had sent her from childhood until death.

Grief threatened to overpower her again, but she distracted herself by going to her trunk and pulling out a heavy bag full of paper and metal. Arabella dumped her letters, all in the same girlish hand, into the bag, and then shoved the bag into the drawer. It barely closed, but that was good enough. 

Cynthia's room held no answers but did give Arabella equal parts comfort and unbounded grief. Mr. Whitlock offered no answers, nor did the town. It seemed people liked Cynthia well enough, but no one could tell her exactly how she died. The town priest spoke of her funeral and offered to shower her the grave, but Arabella declined. She was not strong enough to see her sister's resting place, not until she had a way to bring her back. When she wasn't playing the part of a hysterical sister, Arabella busied herself with her research, but even that had no answers for her. Her husband said nothing to the money she spent on book orders, he didn't seem to care about anything as long as there was a bottle of liquor nearby.

Two weeks passed like this, with no breakthroughs or epiphanies. Arabella had been fending off existential sadness when she was propositioned to meet the town's unofficial leader. She never expected him to put her on the path of regaining Cynthia.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sky was bruised as Arabella undressed in her sister's room. Her body thrummed with unknown power and joy. In less than a day the impossible seemed possible. The other three were worried about the presence of strange creatures, and undead bandits, but Arabella now knew that not only was there truth to some of the stories she had heard, but now she had this gift, this potential that could bring Cynthia back.

Arabella sat at her sister's desk, dressed only in her nightgown. She would sleep, but first she wrote down everything she had seen. When she did sleep, she dreamed of Cynthia, nearly in reach. The next day was spent investigating, but all she could think about was what to do with this power. Hope was full to bursting in her chest that even the walk to the cemetery did not bother her. She had avoided the place but now she was determined to see it.

The priest started to fish on the walk, and Arabella tried not to scoff at his questions. Was she close to her sister? What did he know? Still, even his intruding did not stop her hope. And she wasn't blind, she could see how his and the sharpshooter's faces fell as she spoke.

"I don't care about my namesake, or love or a husband that I can feel fulfilled in or is gonna call me beautiful or take care of me. I don't care about any of that. If it means being married to some wealthy aristocrat to get what I need to do the research to bring her back, I'll take advantage of any situation that can provide," she said, her voice even as she stared him down.

The priest's face fell, and he looked back at her with furrowed brows. "Excuse me, did you say you were going to bring her back?" he said with a soft voice that did not bely gentleness but rather that he thought she was hysterical. No one would ever understand.

She had to make them understand. Or maybe that didn't matter. Didn't any of them see the beauty in what they had now? Their new capabilities? She had seen the shocked joy on his face when he used them, but now the good reverend had reverted to the hypocrisy of his métier. There was nothing without Cynthia.

"You heard the doctor, the stories of two men at war who came back. Brothers seeking out other brothers," she said, staring at him as she gripped her skirts with her gloved hands. 

His look did change, his brows relaxing as he lost his stiff posture. The priest looked at her like she was a pitiful creature who talked fancies! Not someone who had performed miracles a mere half day before! 

"What if there's something to all that?" she said, before the other two members of the little group joined them. The topic changed but her anger stayed rooted in her chest. The graveyard was covered with a thick fog, but her sister's grave was clear.

Cynthia's grave marker was made of more cheap pine and her anger surged. As the others discussed something near another grave, Arabella collapsed to her knees and started to dig. When the others noticed her, she stopped and tried to reason with them. But it was the lack of fog that convinced her, not her logic. At the very least she god help, even if she had two guns pointed at her.

When they uncovered her sister's empty grave, Arabella felt a hollowness in her chest. She went through the mechanics of speech and movement to get back to the town, but not even being up to the elbows in viscera could distract her from thoughts of Cynthia. Where was she? She surely had one of those creatures inside her, but the power that burned in her heart was ready to make Cynthia's locomotion independent of the snakes. Arabella plotted as they sat in that finely furnished office again, until the sounds of screams stopped any discussion.

From the Balcony she could see Cynthia again and she gripped the chipped-painted railing. People were running around and shouting, the cries of half dead people filled the thoroughfare. Horses ran down it, one trailing blood. A crow was already pecking a dying woman.

"Cynthia!" Arabella screamed, looking past a ghastlier figure to her twin. Her sister moved with clumsy feet and she held a gun that was trailing smoke.

Arabella grasped the stone that hung above her chest and shut her eyes tightly. she tried to will her mind to her sister's. In child they seemed able to read each other's thoughts, and so she told the power to make it so. _Please listen to me, please hear me. Lower your gun, run down the back alley, I'll meet you there, I can bring you back, I can bring you back to me. I love you, I love you, I love you_ she thought desperately.

And, Arabella stopped and lowered her gun. Her gaze went to where Arabella stood at the balcony while someone else screamed at her to get behind cover. Her heart was beating faster with adrenaline and the whisper of power that had connected her to Cynthia. Her sister started to move closer, focused solely on Arabella, but she raised her gun at her now too.

_Please, please, I still love you, no matter what!_ Arabella thought, still clutching the crystal. Her hand became slick with blood as she gripped the crystal. Her vision blurred with tears and she saw Cynthia still pointing her gun. But did the gun waver or was it her vision through her tears? She heard the snapping crack of a shot and saw wood splinter a foot from her.

_Lower your gun, please, don't do this. Please, I love you, come back to me, please. Please come back,_ she projected through the link. The gunfire kept going, though the others were focused on the far more dead corpse. Her sister walked closer and closer to where she was, her gun still raised. Arabella looked down at her from the balcony, still urging her. Someone behind her screamed at her to come inside, but it didn't matter.

Her sister stopped right below the balcony and Arabella could see the unreadable look on her pallid face. The effects of rot were there, and were clearly affecting her movement, but Arabella didn't care. She pulled up her skirts and petticoats up in one arm and started to climb over the railing. She let them fall and clutched the bloody crystal in her palms. As Arabella let go of the balcony to jump down to Cynthia, she willed life to enter her sister's corpse again. She willed this strange new power to let her live.

Arabella landed as best as she could, but her ankle gave her a shout of pain. Still, she was able to stand up with only slight discomfort. Her gaze met the end of the gun as she looked at Cynthia, but... The gun fell from her grasp and Cynthia started to cough. This time she fell to her knees, clutching her throat as she coughed louder and louder. Ashes and dust fell from her lips to the ground and Arabella could feel the power in the air. She crouched down and put a hand on Cynthia's back.

"You always close your eyes before you jump, don't you know it’s better to look as you leap?" Cynthia said, her voice scratchy as she looked at Arabella. The pallor in her face was starting to dissipate. Her eyes were no longer dull and limpid, but bright and clear again. Her chest moved with breath. Arabella threw her arms around her tightly before helping her up.

"Oh shush... let's go, hurry, before... We need to go while people are distracted," Arabella hissed, glancing about. She could see Miriam torn between looking at her and shooting the still standing corpse. 

Cynthia nodded and made Arabella lean on her as they walked down the alley to go behind the buildings. They would hide in the doctor's office and deal with the others once the shootout was finished. Arabella did not want to chance having Cynthia hit by a stray bullet, not when life so clearly lived in her despite the dusty burial gown.

And besides, the sisters had catching up to do even if it was in a stolen moment in the strange cursed town of Deadwood.

**Author's Note:**

> I did this as part of nanowrimo. I barely proofread this, so please lmk what typos there are.


End file.
